


she wore it wonderfully well

by TheCherryPieButWithLifeguards (TheAceApples)



Series: Mag7 Kinkmeme Prompt Fills [4]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Anachronisms, F/M, GFY, Post-Canon, Wall Sex, no betas we die like man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheCherryPieButWithLifeguards
Summary: The Unconventional And Wholly Unintentional Courtship Of Emma Cullen And Diego Manuel García de Vasquez.
Relationships: Emma Cullen/Vasquez
Series: Mag7 Kinkmeme Prompt Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679494
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	she wore it wonderfully well

**Author's Note:**

> Tara, hit the back button right now.
> 
> For the kinkmeme prompt here: https://mag7-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/1188.html?thread=59812#cmt59812
> 
> title is part of a line from cinderella (2015) about lady tremaine: "She, too, had known grief, but she wore it wonderfully well."

Almost exactly a year after the Battle of Rose Creek, with the day drifting inexorably into late afternoon, Emma Cullen’s door rattles with an unexpected knock. Jolted from her spiralling thoughts—about Bogue and about the men their little town had taken to calling ‘our magnificent seven’ and about Matthew, always about Matthew—she expects someone like Leni or Josiah or even little Anthony to be on the other side of her door.  
  
She is wholly unprepared to see Mr. Vasquez, rubbing the back of his neck and looking ready to bolt from her property.  
  
“Well, well, well,” Emma drawls, leaning the doorframe. “I do believe there’s an outlaw standin’ on my front porch.”  
  
The smile, hesitant at first, becomes that coyote’s grin she recognizes from the short time they’d known each other. _“Sí,”_ he says, the nervous line of his shoulders relaxing a touch, _“estoy aquí para robarte.”_  
  
Emma narrows her eyes at his tone, the same one he’d use to gently poke at Faraday knowing the Irishman didn’t understand a word of Spanish. “Oh, really?” she says archly. _“¿Tú eres un bandido?_ Robbin’ homesteaders now, are you?”  
  
Vasquez blinks, then throws his head back in a wild laugh.  
  
“Been learning Spanish, _¿señora?_ I’m flattered.”  
  
Maybe it’s that the guns on his hip make her think of being safe and surrounded by allies; maybe it’s that she misses Matthew so much it hurts; maybe it’s just that she’s lonely.  
  
Whichever the reason, Emma rolls her eyes and allows her flinty expression to soften, the corners of her mouth tilting up. She nudges the door and steps aside, jerking her head meaningfully. “I’ve got supper cooking,” she says, remembering vividly the way Vasquez had always eaten. Hunger did things to a person’s manners, to be sure. “How long you plannin’ to stay, Mr. Vasquez?”  
  
His steps cautious, Vasquez crosses the threshold of her home like she’d once stepped into a cabin with a corpse. “Eh, not long enough to bring any trouble,” he says, back to inexplicably nervous. His eyes dart around, not like he’s searching for a threat but more like he doesn’t know where it’s safe to settle them. “I, uh—wasn’t intending to intrude, _señora,_ I have a room at the boarding house. Just wanting to say hello, see how you doing?”  
  
Emma gives him an unimpressed look. “So you rode all the way out here just to say hello and then ride back,” she says, less a question and more a commentary on the foolishness of that notion. “Your horse must not like you over-much, Mr. Vasquez.”  
  
That startles another laugh out of the man.  
  
_“Ay,_ you don’t have to feed me, _señora._ I’m not clearing crooked sheriffs _y mercenarios_ out of your town, anymore. This is all I meant.”  
  
“We’re friends, Mr. Vasquez, you can call me Emma,” she replies sternly. “And friends don’t eat at boarding houses when supper’s on the stove and nearly done. Besides, you’re still too damn skinny.”  
  
The _vaquero_ shoots her a look of deep offense and says, _“¿Estoy demasiado flaco?”_ Then they’re off, sniping at each other like years-old friends, instead of two lonely souls brought together by circumstance and tragedy for all of two weeks. At one point, sitting at the table and working his way through a second helping of stew, he says, “You know, I don’t remember your cooking being so…”  
  
“Edible?” Emma finishes when he trails off. “Matthew did most of the cookin’. Since y’all left, I’ve… had more practice. Had to get better at feedin’ myself.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Vasquez says into the quiet. “I meant to be here earlier but…”  
  
Emma gives her best smile. “It’s not your responsibility, Mr. Vasquez.”  
  
“We’re friends, Emma,” he replies. “You can call me Diego.”  
  
He ends up moving on after a few days, and spends little of that time in the boarding house. Instead he does a bit of drinking and a bit of smoking, fixes up little things here and there around the home Matthew had built for them, and does his best to teach Emma how to cook a few dishes from his homeland. When he moves on, she’s there to see him off with a hug that may be a bit tighter and go on a bit longer than is strictly appropriate and a wave that continues long after he’s disappeared over the horizon.  
  
-  
  
Two years after the Battle of Rose Creek sees a myriad of changes from the town it was before Bogue tried his best to ruin it.  
  
More families, more farms, more little businesses.  
  
It’s no thriving center of civilization, but it’s no bad place to settle down and raise a family. Emma watches the children grow, and her neighbors flourish, and feels a pang of envy deep inside her soul, but learns to live with it. Might be she’ll never have what she and Matthew had always planned, what the townsfolk fell into assuming she’d eventually have with Teddy Q, but—  
  
But it’s no bad place to settle down by one’s lonesome, either.  
  
Some days are harder than others, make no mistake. There are times when Emma can’t hardly breathe with how deeply she longs for Matthew—his voice and his eyes and his smile, warm hands lifting her up for a kiss during the day and strong arms wrapped around her at night.  
  
She remembers that first night their magnificent seven had settled down for a meal and Goodnight had called fame a sarcophagus. Emma can’t help but disagree on her worst days; the true sarcophagus, if anything, is loneliness.  
  
Still, she has decent neighbors and good friends and makes it through one day at a time.  
  
Five days after the anniversary of Matthew’s death, Emma opens the door to check on the chickens and makes a spectacle of herself laughing. It’s an unkind thing to do but she finds herself with little recourse—Diego Manuel García de Vasquez, bare-faced and fluffy-headed, all dolled up like a gentleman is something that sets her in stitches.  
  
“Is that Goodnight Robicheaux that I see before me?” she giggles, holding herself upright through sheer force of will.  
  
Vasquez turns redder than she’s ever seen him and lets loose a stream of Spanish invective so strong that the real Goodnight Robicheaux would have slapped him upside the head for saying in front of a lady. It only makes her laugh harder.  
  
Oh, Emma’s an unkind woman to be mocking her friend in such a way, especially when he truly does strike a fine figure. Slim silver-grey jacket and trousers, dark red waistcoat, freshly laundered white shirt, and his ever-present gun-belt all lend him an air of respectability, with just a hint of danger simmering under the surface. She won’t be at all surprised to find some of the more enterprising women of the town trying to lasso him into a marriage.  
  
She snorts again at her own phrasing and Vasquez just about throws his hat into the dirt, he looks so incensed.  
  
“I will ride _right_ back out of Rose Creek, Emma Cullen!” he threatens. It would be much more intimidating if he didn’t look so embarrassed his face was about to catch fire. “Don’t think I won’t, _amad—”_  
  
He clears his throat loudly but Emma hears the unfinished endearment.  
  
A few such things have slipped out over the past year or so, Vasquez tending to stay in California as he does and swing by for a day or two whenever he’s in the area. Safe bed to sleep in, a warm meal, maybe a little bit of woodworking or manual labor to occupy a day, and then he’s usually out again.  
  
Nothing to think too much on, despite what Leni, Teddy, Josiah, and a whole host of others seem to think. Vasquez is an easy and affectionate soul, for all that he’s got a bounty on his head and more guns than hands to shoot them. He’d started calling Faraday _güero_ after only a few days’ riding and one shootout, for heaven’s sake.  
  
Emma ain’t gonna assume he’s set his cap for her just because he calls her pretty little names upon occasion. And, if he has, she doesn’t even know if she’d take him up on his offer or pack his bags for him. Better to avoid the mess altogether.  
  
“What, um,” she forces out in a strangled voice, trying to restrain her giggles. “What’s goin’ on here? Cuz, uh, I have to say, if I’m harboring a criminal wanted for peddling snake oil, I think I, mmm, have a right to know.”  
  
Vasquez glares down at her from his seat atop Wild Jack. “A bounty hunter nearly got the drop on me near Nevada.” He waves away her immediate concern and hops down. “I’m fine—didn’t come anywhere close to me—but he got a good enough look, or description from the locals, to update my warrant. It’s a better likeness, at least.”  
  
She scoffs.  
  
“Red Harvest suggested I change my appearance for a bit,” he explains, leading the horse over for a drink of water. “At least until the heat dies back down. Should I get a room at the boarding house, do you think?”  
  
Patting the cantankerous animal’s flank, Emma levels a look at him. “I hardly think that’ll be necessary. You look different enough from, well, _yourself_ that no one should connect you to whatever the warrant looks like nowadays.” He shoots a smile at her, flashing a set of dimples usually hidden beneath his beard. Refusing to be flustered, Emma continues in a deliberately casual voice, “So, you saw Red Harvest recently?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, _sí,_ we crossed paths a few days ago.” A line appears between Vasquez’s eyebrows. “He was heading away from this direction—did he not stop in Rose Creek?”  
  
Emma can’t help but snort.  
  
“As far as I know, that man hasn’t set foot back in this town in two years. The most he’s done is let himself be seen just long enough to wave and then disappear again. I asked Mr. Chisolm to pass it along that you’re all welcome here any time, and he said he’d do so, but you’re the only one who ever comes back.”  
  
They don’t talk much after that, getting Wild Jack settled and retreating into the house.  
  
Vasquez’s presence helps her frame of mind, to be honest. There are no bad days with him around, taking up space that’s been empty two long years and filling it up. With cooking and laughter, whistling and singing, even cursing and complaining, it all makes her home feel a bit more… well, like it had, once upon a time. The house feels colder and emptier for a long while after he moves on, Emma won’t deny it.  
  
She’s happy to see him even without him looking like himself.  
  
(Ain’t even wearing those flashing silver spurs of his, for heaven’s sake.)  
  
Lunch is a quiet affair, in that it’s got plenty of words but little in the way of substance. Vasquez doesn’t push her to speak on more than the way Leni’s little girl has taken to terrorizing Anthony and Emma doesn’t push him to speak on more than the tailor three towns over, whose wandering hands he’d had to endure for his lovely suit.  
  
He stays a full week this time, and kisses her gently on the cheek before he goes.  
  
-  
  
After that things are—different, but not.  
  
He stays away for weeks and months at a time, says he’s dodging bounty hunters and picking up work, as if there aren’t half a dozen farmers in Rose Creek alone who’d pay well to have him herd their cattle. Then again, he stays longer as well, helping her around the house and farm and just barely allowing her to get comfortable with his presence before he leaves again.  
  
Emma doesn’t know how she feels about it, except to hope that it doesn’t stop. If it stops, that’d mean he wouldn’t be coming ‘round anymore, that he’d either found somewhere else to settle entirely… Or, that one of those ungodly hunters had caught up with him.  
  
She doesn’t know what Diego did to earn his bounty and she doesn’t rightly care.  
  
Somehow, between cooking lessons and manual labor, the grief that had erected walls around her heart had done nothing to repel the friendship of one lonely _vaquero._ Her friends and neighbors in Rose Creek were fine people, but Vasquez was kind without pity, pressed against the ragged edges of her grief without pushing. He was her best damn friend in the world and no two-bit bounty hunter was going to take him away from her.  
  
(And, perhaps he’s a bit more than that, with the absent kisses he’ll press to her cheeks and forehead while he visits, like there’s nothing to it. Like there’s no reason not to. Like the circumstances of their meeting and his bounty and her place in the world are nothing compared to the little bursts of happiness he sometimes feels and wants to share with her.)  
  
-  
  
The day before the third anniversary dawns bright and dismal.  
  
Head pounding, stomach twisting, animals stubbornly refusing to cooperate, by the time the sun starts setting, Emma Cullen is madder than a hornet.  
  
The very idea of walking into her house—empty of a husband or child, empty of friends, empty of Vasquez—just to make a lonely supper for herself and long for a strong drink sets her teeth on edge. She’d let herself have one night, a few days after the battle, to get blind stinkin’ drunk and cry her bleeding heart out for the whole future she’d lost with Matthew. That was all she had needed, until today.  
  
Today of all Goddamned days, Emma needs a fucking drink.  
  
Saddling up Margarita, the gray mare that had once sat pretty outside a ramshackle cabin in the mountains, she heads for town—more specifically, the Elysium. If there’s one thing she can count on, it’s that Gavin will give her a bottle of tequila and a bed in which to sleep it off, in addition to his pitying looks.  
  
Everyone gives her and Leni those damned pitying looks ‘round this time of year. As if they’re the only two who lost loved ones. Hell, at least Leni’s got her little girl to remember poor Caleb by, Emma doesn’t even have that—  
  
“Evenin’, Miss Emma,” Teddy says with a start, exiting the hotel with a sway in his step that tells her he’s been at Gavin’s good whiskey. “You here f’r a drink?”  
  
She musters up a smile, certain it’s a pitiful thing. “Yes, I am. But I see you started without me.”  
  
In the light of the setting sun, she can’t tell if Teddy’s face is ruddy because of her teasing or just too much drink. “Well, if I’d’ve known you were comin’ I’d’ve saved you a seat!” he protests, a bit too loudly, and Emma feels her brittle edges soften.  
  
“No need for that, Teddy,” she says, grateful as always that his little puppy-crush hadn’t lingered. “You just g’on and get yourself home, you hear?”  
  
Teddy murmurs a _yes, ma’am_ and heads off towards a cheaper bed-house, but Emma doesn’t call out to correct his course. They all who’d been here three years ago had more than a few dark thoughts around this time of year. She doesn’t begrudge him a bit of comfort just because she has none for herself.  
  
As predicted, Gavin stutters and sets her up at a corner table with a glass, bottle, firm squeeze to the shoulder, and reassurance to let him know when she’s done for the night and he’d set up a room for her. Emma nods and waves him away, gaze fixed on the clear liquid as she pours hopefully the first of many drinks for the night.  
  
_Plata,_ she remembers Vasquez calling it once, laughing and asking if they needed salt and limes to drink it up here.  
  
Emma takes the first as a shot, then sips at the second, letting her thoughts drift and spiral into the maudlin places she usually takes pains to avoid. It leaves an awful taste in her mouth, the liquor and the laughter of the other patrons both.  
  
The little bell-like tinkle of spurs against the wooden floor almost has her turning to look, but Emma refuses to be distracted. Plenty of people wear those jingling little bits of silver on their boots and Vasquez came ‘round town just a month ago. His now-habitual kiss goodbye had grazed the side of her mouth and she’d spent the next two weeks absolutely refusing to miss him, and failing miserably.  
  
Only the raised voice of Gavin—“Good to see you ‘gain so soon, Mr. Vasquez!”—pulls Emma out of her head, just in time to hunch her shoulders and duck it back down.  
  
“Glad I made it, _señor,”_ comes the cheerful reply. “You got a room open?”

“Sure do! Any company for ya tonight?”  
  
“Does he ever?” a pretty, feminine voice answers from over by the bar. Emma cranes her neck to catch sight of one of Madame Renée’s sporting women receiving a polite kiss on the hand from the town’s favorite outlaw. “You flirt an awful lot for someone who don’t partake, Mr. Vasquez.”  
  
_“¡Ay,_ can I not simply pay a beautiful woman a compliment, _¿Señorita Rosa?”_  
  
“If you buy me a drink, perhaps,” Rose says coyly. “I promise we won’t let Iris corner you this time.”  
  
Emma can’t help but snort into her drink at Vasquez’s near-panicked double-take around the bar. To her memory, Iris is one of the local angelicas who’d tried roping themselves a husband in Vasquez. She’d laughed hard enough to bust a rib when he’d ridden up to the house after fetching her groceries, airing his lungs in Spanish about wildcats, his waistcoat and belt all askew.  
  
Vasquez only lingers long enough to toss Gavin enough coin to pay for two drinks, slam his back, and bid Rose a good night. Then he’s up the stairs and out of sight.  
  
Not sure if she’s glad he hadn’t seen her or disappointed he hadn’t tried her place, Emma turns back to her drink. Sips at it, thinking about burning tongues and warm hands on balmy nights, affection given in a thousand different little ways with no expectation. Just—gifts, freely given.  
  
That’s what Vasquez is: the kind to offer up love without fanfare, no hint of self-consciousness. And God as her witness, she’s tried to do the same, but here her fella is bedding down at the Elysium instead of using the last of the day’s light to push on to the house.  
  
She licks at the corner of her mouth.  
  
Unbidden, one of Goodnight Robicheaux’s many nuggets of Cajun wisdom he’d seen fit to bestow upon Teddy, unaware that she’d been close enough to overhear, echoes in her mind. _“A faint heart never fucked a bobcat…”_  
  
It’d had poor Teddy spitting mad at the presumption, and even cold with grief, Emma had managed a snicker at his expense. But, Hell, it’s true, ain’t it?  
  
Slugging back the last gulp of tequila, Emma leaves the bottle and stomps up the stairs, determined to rustle up the _vaquero_ that’d weaseled his way into her grieving heart. It’s not much of a search, as he’s poking a cautious head out the door of his room just as she starts looking around for it.  
  
Hair mussed and stripped down to his shirtsleeves, Vasquez looks unbearably soft as he blinks and asks, _“¿Amada mía?”_  
  
“Oh, good,” Emma says.  
  
Then she kisses him.  
  
It is, admittedly, not the kiss he deserves. Not sweet and kind, like him, but rather rushed and reckless, like her. His hands come to rest gently on her waist and Emma pulls away and tries again, softer.  
  
He tastes like dust and salt, makes a delicate little noise of surprise when she nips at his bottom lip and curls her tongue around his. A throaty laugh from the bottom of the stairs startles them apart. Vasquez clears his throat and tugs her inside his room, closing the door with far more concentration than she believes to be strictly necessary.  
  
Emma tugs—not, _nervously_—at her braid as they wait for the footsteps of the lady and her customer to fade into a room of their own. She wishes, all of a sudden, that she’d left it down; Matthew’d always said it framed her face best like that, made it look like waves of fire.  
  
(She can’t remember the last time she’d _primped_ for anybody.)  
  
“You, eh, been drinking, _¿señora?”_ he asks, licking his lips and likely finding the taste of tequila.  
  
The sudden return to formality feels like a bucket of cold water over her head, shocking and not a little bit upsetting. It has her backing away, jerking up her chin and placing her hands behind her back, eyes straight ahead. “My apologies, Mr. Vasquez,” she says, voice not wavering a note. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”  
  
Vasquez frowns, going from flushed to pale in moments. “Emma?”  
  
“If you’ll excuse me—”  
  
She brushes past him, intending to get herself out of the Elysium if she has to jump through a damned window, but he catches her hand just as she touches the door handle.  
  
“Did I say something wrong, Emma?”  
  
“Of course not, Diego. I’ll just be going now.”  
  
He laces their fingers—loosely enough to easily pull away, but undeniably together.  
  
“I hurt you.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, you hardly touched me.”  
  
A thumb strokes across her knuckles.  
  
“You kissed me.”  
  
“I apologize.”  
  
He drifts closer, enough to feel the heat of him against her arm.  
  
“I accept your apology, but you don’t have to go.”  
  
“I don’t want to impose.”  
  
There’s something cloying in her chest, clawing its way towards her throat.  
  
“I don’t want you to leave if you don’t want to.”  
  
“I don’t want to stay if you don’t want me to.”  
  
Gentle fingertips brush against her cheek, pushing a few strands of hair away and pulling her to face him again. Vasquez always looks a bit like he’d swallowed a bit of sunlight as a boy and lets it shine again whenever he feels the world’s getting too dark; right now, he looks like a single passing cloud might blot out that light for good.  
  
“I want you to stay. And I’d like to kiss you again.”  
  
“I want to stay. And I’d like you to kiss me again.”  
  
That sunlight smile breaks across his face and he leans down for the kiss that should have been their first, slow and sweet.  
  
Pressed against the door, Emma tugs him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck with a groan. It isn’t something she’s allowed herself to think about, the taste of his lips or the feel of his hands, not something she could stomach. Life on the frontier is too harsh for delicate sensibilities and long periods of mourning but… Emma just couldn’t.  
  
Not until she’d had a taste of Vasquez’s favorite drink, seen him take a room in town rather than disrupt her night and turn down a beautiful woman’s advances out of potentially-unrequited… loyalty. She doesn’t know if that’s always been the case—she doubts that he’s kept himself to himself these past two years—but in this town that she’s made a home, he did.  
  
Her daddy always said that there was no rushing Emma’s mind on things, they had to take their natural course. And once she’d decided, there was no convincing her otherwise.  
  
Vasquez winds an arm around her waist and pulls her so tightly against him that she’s almost lifted off her toes. It feels so good to laugh into his mouth, that little bit overenthusiasm melting away any lingering shadow of nerves. Emma fancies she can taste that sunlight he’d swallowed as a boy when he smiles and kisses her again, and again, and again.  
  
“I love you,” he murmurs against her lips, like she doesn’t know, like it’s some kind of secret.  
  
It melts her heart all the same and she breathes her own secret back. _“Te amo también.”_  
  
He stares at her, as if he needs a moment to gauge those words. Emma loves him, too. She _does._ Maybe it took her a little bit longer to get there, but Hell, they’ve both lived through enough heartache that she doubts he begrudges her the time to… settle her affairs, as it were.  
  
She remembers the cabin where they three had met, sitting on the ground and watching him consider Sam’s business proposition. He’d had the same little lines across his forehead, the same little twitch at the corners of his mouth. Vasquez wants to believe her. For just a moment, though, he allows himself to consider that she’s lying, trying to trick him, or simply mistaken. She doesn’t begrudge him that necessity.  
  
Then, like cocking and holstering his gun, the last little bit of suspicion is gone.  
  
Hooking a finger on the front of her vest, he pulls Emma in for another kiss, much less sweet. The heat of it sends a thrill down her spine and she makes a downright girlish little noise when he slips his tongue into her mouth. His groan sparks a flush that starts behind her breastbone and spreads from there, pooling in her belly.  
  
Bold again, Emma sinks a hand into his hair and grips it tight, uses it to bare the column of his throat for her to bite at. His pulse leaps beneath her tongue, throat vibrates with a pleased hum as she ruthlessly sucks a mark that can’t be covered by his shirt.  
  
It becomes a bit of a blur then—a race to remove as many barriers between them as quickly as possible. Vasquez has the advantage because he’s only shirt, pants, and drawers from his skin, but Emma fights dirty, letting herself react with a bit less inhibition to the feel of his calloused fingers stripping away her clothes until she’s in nothing but her shift, distracts him.  
  
He doesn’t mind the game of it, seems to enjoy the way her tequila-clumsy fingers pull off his shirt and then amuse themselves against his skin. She pouts when he steps away to shuck off the rest of his clothes but finds herself distracted by the fine figure he cuts.  
  
He’d been so skinny after his time in the mountains, it’d been a bit painful to think on. Now, he’s got a good layer of softness between firm muscle and the world, built up as much as Emma and the rest of the town have been able to manage during his stays. The man eats like it’s a brand new invention, but only because he’s so lean on the road. Like the way he still is with touch, desperate for it and dolling it out in equal measure, because he gets little enough elsewhere.  
  
(God, but she hopes Sam and Red look after him when they’re together. Please don’t let his brothers simply watch as he withers like a garden untended.)  
  
Vasquez watches her as well, heavy-lidded and hungry.  
  
He reaches out and Emma thinks he means to take her hand and pull her over to the bed, but his fingers catch the end of her braid instead and pull it loose. She smirks and yanks him close again, catching his weight when he stumbles and letting out a little moan at the bright splash of pain. The rattle of the door was surely noticeable but the feeling of his hand in her hair and his mouth on her skin is too damningly good for her to care overmuch.  
  
They’re at the Elysium, for Heaven’s sake. It would hardly be much of a shock were one of the other patrons to hear them, to notice them. That thought should not send such a shiver up her spine.  
  
“Emma,” he breathes into her ear, toying with the hem of the last scrap of fabric between them like a question. Matthew had been like that as well, always asking and never assuming.  
  
God, but she picks them well, doesn’t she?  
  
_“Yes.”_ She pulls him closer, wanting to feel him, so overwarm it may as well be midday in their little room. _“Please.”_  
  
His hands skim under the cloth to pet the soft skin between her thighs. Whether the movement is meant to admire or tease, Emma huffs just the same and grabs his hand, pressing his fingers where she wants them most.  
  
Vasquez’s kisses become sloppy as he slips his fingers inside of her, the easy slide of it making the both of them gasp. He isn’t rough or impatient with his touch, doesn’t seem to view it as a necessary precursor to anything else, just moves his fingers with the same steady care he’s always given her until she’s shaking and whining against the door.  
  
When she climaxes, Emma clutches tightly at his shoulders and basks in the way Vasquez nuzzles her temple. He drops a light kiss on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the corner of her mouth as she calms, petting her hair and tucking a stray lock behind her ear.  
  
“Good?” he asks, smiling softly.  
  
Grinning wide enough to rival the Cheshire cat, Emma nips at his bottom lip with her teeth and purrs, _“Very_ good,” into his mouth. “In fact, I think you deserve a reward.”  
  
Vasquez honest-to-God growls in reply and, ignoring her peal of laughter, pulls away to grab a condom from the room’s little bedside table.  
  
Emma tries to stifle a giggle, mostly fails, and lends a hand to his efforts in apology. He mutters under his breath about troublesome redheads but kisses her without reservation when she drags him back, hooking a leg around his hip and pulling him close. They both groan as he eases into her, clutching tightly at each other and sharing breaths.  
  
“Mmm, you can move,” she says, the words feeling thick on her tongue, blood rushing in her ears. A warm wash of air across her face, a silent laugh, and Vasquez’s hands settle delicately on her hips, adjusting their weight against each other.  
  
He presses his forehead to hers and smiles, kisses her softly and rolls his hips.  
  
The back of Emma’s head hits the door with a thud and he chuckles, dragging his mouth up the column of her throat to nip at her jaw. She swats at his shoulder and kisses him sloppily, too distracted by how good he feels inside her.  
  
(Truth be known, she hadn’t thought she’d ever be so intimate with anyone again, after Matthew. She hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of simply remarrying and moving on. Her friendship with Vasquez was the closest she’d ever thought to come, and perhaps, that was a sign in and of itself.)  
  
It warms her, the obvious care in the way he touches her, the gentle kisses he peppers across her face. Part of Emma wonders if he wants to be rougher, greedier, wants to pin her down and have his way with her. Sometimes she entertains herself throughout the day fantasizing about being with someone like that, and she moans embarrassingly loud as the thought occurs to her now.  
  
She pulls Vasquez tighter, kisses him harder, biting at his mouth and relishing the way his fingers dig harder into her skin. He pulls his face away to bury it in her hair, breathing harder and thrusting harsher, grunting her name into her ear. Distantly, she knows that any number of people can hear their voices and the rattling of the door, but she doesn’t care because Vasquez’s hand drops between them and his thumb begins to rub careful circles above where they’re joined.  
  
Emma bites her lip and whines.  
  
There’s something to be said for abstinence, she thinks dimly, the tension in her body building higher and higher. It makes everything feel so much more intense. She swallows a moan and digs her nails into Vasquez’s shoulder when it crests, feeling vaguely guilty as he lets out a hiss.  
  
He pants her name and his love into her ear as he continues to move, hips jerking with more desperation than finesse, and she thinks that maybe he has gone just as long without as she has. It’s an unexpected thought. And then he’s sighing and shuddering, his climax turning him into jelly against her. She pets his face and hair, shoulders and arms, every inch of skin she can reach because he holds her so tightly, like he thinks she’ll disappear in a puff of smoke now.  
  
Her sweet, sunny _vaquero,_ never letting himself settle too deeply into happiness.  
  
She presses a kiss to his cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose, murmurs every sweet word of Spanish she knows, hoping it’ll sink into his skin.  
  
He pulls away, blinking muzzily, and treats her to a crooked little grin. “That’s not exactly the welcome home I was expecting, _mi amada.”_  
  
Rolling her eyes, she kisses him again. Then she pushes and pulls and generally harasses him until they’re as cleaned up as they’re going to be and nestled together under the covers of the bed. Sprawled across his chest, Emma toys with the medallion around his neck and thinks about family.  
  
She’d wanted a big one with Matthew—wanted children and grandchildren and everything she could get her greedy, grasping hands on. It hadn’t happened that way, and they’d mourned every false bit of hope they lost.  
  
Over the years, Vasquez has opened up about the family he was born into, with too much responsibility and not enough freedom, and the reasons he’d eventually left. She knows there’s an itch under his skin that keeps him moving around, never settling, even beyond the fear of bounty hunters and vengeful warrant officers.  
  
But, even so… she wants to try again.  
  
Wants to stand up in front of the world and tell them that this is the one she wants for the rest of her life, the one she’ll protect and be protected by as long as they both shall live, because she’d made her mistakes the last time. Had been too focused on what they didn’t have together instead of what they did.  
  
There’s a brave, beautiful, brash fella in her arms who offers her whiskey or cigarillos and calls her _beloved_ in the same breath. Maybe he’s a little skittish of staying in one place, and Anthony once told her a story about being pulled aside and lectured on the nature of responsibility by a man who claimed to have never had anything, but that’s okay. She doesn’t love him any less for his fears.  
  
“Hey, Diego?” she says, peering up at his face, peaceful and near sleep. “Welcome home.”  
  
His smile is brighter and warmer than any sunrise she’s ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> this took me three weeks and i'm still pissed at it for being so damn difficult. also, wikipedia tells me that tequila didn't start being exported to the u.s. until the mid-1880's but similarly to the condoms, i don't care because i want to include them.
> 
> special shout-out to my friend nog, without whom this might never have gotten finished, because we made a deal that if i didn't finish and post it by tuesday then i'd have to send her the draft and the idea of my real-life friend reading smut that i wrote terrified me into finishing it within hours of making that agreement.


End file.
